


Don't dream it, be it...

by AnythingButPink



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Dress Up, First Time, M/M, Rocky Horror Picture Show - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnythingButPink/pseuds/AnythingButPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie is babysitting, Doyle's undercover... Bad guys (and Richard O'Brien) are about to change their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't dream it, be it...

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a certain William Andrew Philip Bodie lumbered with a babysitting job (“I think you mean 'assigned close protection duty', Bodie”) would not be a happy bunny. Especially when assuming solo bodyguard duties because Doyle had been sent undercover in Soho on something apparently so sensitive even Bodie was in the dark. So no one was more surprised than Bodie himself when he found himself happily humming as he waited for the lift, having handed over wealthy teenaged socialite Magdalena DeLuca to Lewis for the next eight hours.

Yes, she was pretty, and would one day be very beautiful, but the 15-year age difference alone would have been enough to ensure his thoughts were never less than professional. As it was, his affections were engaged elsewhere and Magdalena's obvious charms hadn't managed as much as a chink in his armour.

She was excellent company though and not only had he sat through an entire musical with her – about a cross-dressing alien of all things – he had even enjoyed it. It wasn't something he was going to tell anyone though. Not even Doyle. Bodie's guts tightened as he tried not to think of the many things he already wasn't telling Doyle. The fact that most of them could be précised into three words – “I want you” – was no help. He was aware that those three words, while entirely accurate, were also utterly inadequate. It was like describing the sea as wet.

The lift doors opened. He sighed, stepped inside and went back to humming the film's hypnotic refrain, “Don't dream it... be it... don't dream it...be it...”

The last thing he remembered as he stepped out of the building into the warm, dark London night was the arm around his throat and the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle in his neck.

***

He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't obey him. Every limb was heavy as a wet sack of wool. Colours whirled across the darkness behind his eyelids and he finally cracked open one eye to take in his surroundings.

The room was pitch-black save for a slice of light across the floor beneath the door. Music and singing and laughing were leaking through the wall. His wrists were bound with fabric and it didn't take more than a moment to free himself. He swayed woozily to his feet, cursed at finding his gun and RT missing and felt his way to the door, praying it wasn't too sturdy.

He ran his hands over the door and frame, judging where to slam his shoulder, and found the handle. On a whim he pressed it down and was pleasantly surprised to find the door wasn't locked.

He carefully eased the door open and checked the passageway beyond. It was empty except for the insistent guitar lick and drums pounding through an archway at the other end of the hall. Bodie frowned. Perhaps he was still unconscious and dreaming all this, because the song pulsing through the building was definitely the one Magdalena had cajoled him into dancing to earlier.

“In another dimension... with voyeuristic intention... well-secluded... I see all...”

He padded towards the archway, tucked himself against the wall and peered into the room beyond just as the chorus started.

It was a small nightclub filled with people enthusiastically doing the Timewarp. He blinked at the sea of fishnet-stockinged legs and sequined fabric. To his left was a stage – its luxuriant red curtains currently drawn – and somewhere above him was a film projector casting The Rocky Horror Picture Show onto the wall in front of him.

As the song climaxed, most of the dancers collapsed to the floor, apparently prizing authenticity enough to ignore the sticky residue of drink and cigarette butts coating the dancefloor. Several Brads and Janets remained standing, lip-syncing and over-acting to the film's soundtrack in front of the stage as a pulsing throb of music built behind them. Suddenly the curtains were thrust apart and Bodie had to hold on to the wall to stop himself joining the Janets in a faint.

A shapely fishnet-stockinged leg was stamping a high-heeled shoe along in time to the music. A wiry frame was encased in a black corset vest and knickers. And a very familiar, if dramatically made-up, face was arching a wry eyebrow at the audience while pulling glossy red-black lips into an amused pout.

Doyle's distinctive, canted lean of his hips had derailed Bodie's thoughts on more occasions than he could remember; the sight in front of him now had his woozy brain in a flatspin not even Biggles would have been able to recover from.

Those hips, clad in nothing more than black lingerie and supporting Doyle's fists, were canted more provocatively than ever as they kicked sideways to the beat.

“How'd you do, I... see you've met my... faithful handyman...”

Doyle's painted lips were moving as seductively as Tim Curry's as he mimed along to Frank's first song.

Bodie clung to the archway, wondering which was more worrying – that he might be unconscious and hallucinating the sight in front of him, or that Doyle really was lip-syncing Sweet Transvestite in skimpy drag. Imagined or real, Doyle as Frank was making Bodie's trousers – already tight enough to reveal their owner dressed to the left – snug enough to reveal his religion (or lack of one) too.

Doyle was retreating back to the centre of the curtains now, inviting Brad and Janet up to the lab as he went.

“I see you shiver with antici-” he mouthed, eyes fixed on the couples in the centre of the dancefloor. Bodie held his breath, his heart hammering inside his chest, Doyle lifted his eyebrows and mouthed “-pation”. Bodie's breath escaped him in a sigh.

He watched as Doyle delivered the final lines of the song and whisked himself dramatically behind the curtains. There was no way he could follow his partner across the stage. He still had no idea who had brought him here or why. His eye fell on a door further along the hallway marked 'Staff only' and with a glance over his shoulder, he slipped along the carpet and through the door.

Luck was on his side. He found himself in the tiny wings of the stage. He made his way carefully down a short flight of wooden steps and saw Doyle disappearing into a dressing room. His head slowly clearing, he followed his partner through the door.

Doyle spun on his sequined heels and gaped at the sight of Bodie, looking distinctly the worse for wear, in the doorway.

“Has someone blown my cover?” Doyle's eyes flicked to the drawer in the dressing table where he'd stashed his gun.

“No idea, mate,” said Bodie. “Last thing I remember is leaving Magdalena in Lewis's tender care. Some bugger nobbled me...” He rubbed at his neck, “... and I woke up down the corridor.”

“Fuck.” Doyle rummaged in another drawer, pulled out his RT and tossed it to Bodie. “Better let Cowley know,” he said, and eyed his partner's polo neck. “I'll find you something a bit less … incongruous to wear.”

***

“What did the Cow say?” asked Doyle when he returned to the tiny dressing room.

“That it's no coincidence I was dumped here and that you're now free to tell me what you've been up to while I've been babysitting her royal bleedin' highness.” He frowned. “Where's me camouflage then?”

Doyle's lips twitched and he brought a large shoebox out from behind his back. “Here you go.”

Suspicion clouded Bodie's face and he took the box as if it were an unexploded bomb. He lifted the lid and his frown deepened.

“There's just a pair of shiny boots in here. Where's the rest of it?”

“It's all in there,” said Doyle breezily. “Listen, I'll be back in a bit. I've got another spot to do. Won't be long. I'll explain the op after I Can Make You a Man, okay?” He gave a Bodie a wink and stalked towards the stage.

Bodie stared, open-mouthed, at the satin-clad rear swaying away from him and then down into the box. He pulled out the shiny gold boxing boots and swore as he found the rest of his outfit.

***

On the small stage, Doyle was sashaying between three Rockys – none of them really up to the job but, he acknowledged to himself, all probably much happier in their teeny-tiny shiny gold shorts than Rocky No 4, back in his dressing room. He ran a hand over a puny, pale arm and pantomimed desire to the dancers on the floor, before wrapping his arms around the pudgy shoulders of the other two supposed Adonises.

Someone in this nightclub was probably planning to kill him, and Bodie, at this very moment. He thought of Bodie, swapping his layers of work clothes for little more than his birthday suit, and hoped they could stay alive long enough for Bodie to threaten him with death instead.

The song ended and a biker with blood painted on his face stomped on to the stage, miming to Meatloaf. The Rockys wandered back into the crowd and Doyle slipped backstage again. He saw Bodie before his partner saw him and had to swallow hard at the sight of his broad, naked back, gold-clad, perfect arse and strong, muscled legs. Bodie's head flicked round at the movement and he gave Doyle a hard stare, holding out his hands as he asked, _“This_ is your idea of low profile?”

“Suits you,” he said. “Matches your eyes.”

Bodie snorted. “Yeah. Well, I'm not sure which of us has got the roughest end of the deal to be honest. That lot looks … uncomfortable.”

“You get used to it.”

Bodie opened his mouth to speak. Doyle shook his head. “Later. Duty calls. Get in here.” He encouraged Bodie back into the dressing room and shut the door. “Listen, Magdalena's father owns this place and is running drugs and dirty money through it like they're going out of fashion.”

“So the death threat against Magdalena came from a rival?”

Doyle raised a blackened eyebrow and shrugged. “Yes and no. It was penned by one Major George Cowley.”

Bodie sighed. “Fucking double-think.”

“Safest thing we can do is play along with the show until the cavalry arrives. You get down on the dance floor and copy the other Rockys. Hopefully back-up will get here before the finale.”

Bodie grimaced. “Yeah. Don't fancy doing the King Kong bit.”

Doyle's eyes widened. “Didn't have you down as a 'regular Frankie fan', Bodie.”

Bodie winked and leaned in close enough to smell Doyle's greasepaint and sweat. He rapped a knuckle against his partner's corsetry. “Y'know me, Doyle. Like to keep things close to me chest.” He cocked an ear towards the corridor. “We'd best get moving, sunshine...”

***

Bodie wasn't convinced that the young woman currently rubbing herself against his body was doing much acting. The other Janets were barely skating their hands over their 'creatures of the night' as they sang along with Susan Sarandon. This Janet's hands were sliding firmly across his skin and lingering where they shouldn't. He could imagine Doyle's filthy, Sid-Jameseque laugh at his discomfort and arousal flashed through him for a moment.

He forced his mind back to the present and took comfort in knowing no one would question a bulge in shorts if he had a young woman plastered all over him.

He allowed her to place his hands on her breasts and tried not to mind that he was facing away from the archway. At least he had a good view of the film to help him act along.

Janet frowned at something over his shoulder. He checked behind him and turned his face away at the sight of three men in cheap, ill-fitting polyester suits and a fourth in a well-tailored affair that Bodie would have been very happy to wear.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of them duck away down the corridor towards the backstage door. He gave his Janet one of his most charming smiles before picking her up, twirling her in a circle and dipping her extravagantly towards the floor. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, before leaning close enough to her ear to be heard over the soundtrack.

“Sorry sweetheart, gotta go.”

She frowned at him. “The song's not finished.”

He gave her one of his most charming smiles, gently lifted her hands off his chest and said ruefully, “Someone's about to release the hounds and I'm allergic to dogs.”

Before she could could continue arguing he ducked behind some dancers and vaulted on to the stage and into the wings. He froze at the sound of raised voices in the backstage corridor.

“I told you, I haven't seen anyone back here.”

Doyle, affronted.

“Well, how did his clothes get in your dressing room then?”

Polyester-boy, unconvinced.

“I dunno. I'm not paid to sit in me dressing room. Mr DeLuca wants me out there entertaining the punters, and that's what I've been doing. I haven't seen any strangers either in that gear or out of it, okay?”

“Well, he can't be wandering around Soho in his birthday suit can he?”

Bodie shifted so he could enjoy the expression on Doyle's face.

“He wouldn't be the first. Or the last.” Doyle looked thoughtful. “Have you looked in the wardrobe?”

“You think he's gone to bleedin' Narnia?”

“No, but I think he might have realised a change of clothes wouldn't do him any harm. It's round the corner, first door on the right.”

Bodie watched the man disappear from view and Doyle slip into the dressing room. When he reappeared, he was holding his gun. Bodie checked the corridor and padded down to join him. Doyle raised an eyebrow; Bodie nodded, took the gun and followed in his hunter's footsteps.

***

Bodie handed back the gun.

“One down, three to go, not a shot fired.”

“Father will be pleased,” said Doyle tartly, sliding the weapon out of sight in the dressing room.

“No sign of back-up I suppose?”

Doyle gave him a look.

Bodie's lip curled in a unsurprised resignation.

“There were three more of them. Two goons and a guy in a very dapper suit.”

“That'll be Sonny...” he broke off as another goon appeared at through the door at the top of the hall.

Bodie grabbed Doyle's shoulders and forced him against the wall. “How do I get out of here?” he hissed. “You tell me or I'll break every bone in that pretty little body of yours...”

Doyle cowered as DeLuca's man ran towards them. Bodie kept his eyes on Doyle, almost entirely consumed by judging the closing gap, and just a little distracted by the amusement in his partner's eyes.

“I'll sort him out for you,” said the man, laying his hands on Bodie's arm to pull him off.

Bodie turned to look at his quarry, raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Nah, I don't think you will, mate.”

He lifted his arm and brought his free hand round to connect firmly with the man's jaw. He went down like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

Bodie dropped into a crouch and looked up at Doyle. “Got any cuffs?”

Doyle grinned. “Thought you'd never ask.”

***

They dragged the handcuffed, unconscious body into the wardrobe and dumped him next to the first man – who was no longer unconscious but was still securely trussed and gagged with various items from the drawers and racks of clothing. He shot them a look of hatred and tried cursing them through the improvised gag of stockings.

“I think he just called you a rude name, Doyle.”

“Nah, I'm sure it was you he was calling a...” Doyle broke off at the sound of two men talking as they came down the hallway. He stepped out of the wardrobe and walked towards the conversation.

“Alright, Mr DeLuca, wasn't expecting you in tonight!”

Doyle, all cheery innocence.

The first goon was trying to speak again. Bodie turned the volume down with his fist and refocussed on the conversation.

“I like to keep an eye on business, Raymundo. Speaking of which, have you seen Billy and Jimmy?”

DeLuca, all polite professionalism.

“Yeah,” said Doyle, “They were looking for some bloke apparently. Billy went out the back door five minutes ago and Jimmy followed him not long after. I told them I'd let them know if I saw a stranger wandering round back here.”

“The back door, you say?”

“Yeah, five minutes ago.”

Sonny DeLuca smiled. It wasn't a pleasant sight. “That's a shame. I liked you. The punters liked you. You were a good Frank.”

“What?”

“I had the back door blocked up when we arrived on our little rat hunt tonight. Which means you're lying and now we have to deal with you.” He cocked his head in the third goon's direction and gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand.

Doyle took a step back from Lou, the biggest of DeLuca's men, and Bodie heard a familiar scathing, taunting note return to his partner's voice. “Ah, come on, Lou, don't make me hurt you.”

Lou barked a laugh. Doyle took another step back, drawing them closer to Bodie, still hidden around the corner. The man swung a punch so telegraphed that Doyle simply sidestepped it. “That the best you got?”

He rushed Doyle, pushing him into the back wall, but Doyle leaned forward, arms out and easily held his attacker at bay, before pushing him sideways and into Bodie's path.

Bodie slammed a hefty one-two into Lou's head and followed up with a sharp knee somewhere soft. As the man collapsed with a groan to the floor, Bodie became aware of Doyle pushing DeLuca, face first, into the wall and pulling his arms up behind him.

“I thought Susan was the only CI5 agent who could fight in high heels,” said Bodie.

“Lots of things you don't know about me sunshine,” said Doyle, with a wink.

“Yeah well,” said Bodie, his accent making one of its regular, unconscious detours towards the Mersey, “I'll admit I had you down as a 36A not a 38B...”

“Moron.”

Bodie grinned happily at him, heard a moan from the floor and gave Lou a hefty kick.

There was the sound of splintering wood behind them, followed by a lot of squealing from the dancefloor.

“The cavalry's arrived then...” Bodie prodded Lou with a gold-shod toe. “Come on then, Louise, you got a date with some friends of mine.”

***

Cowley must have seen Doyle in this get-up before, Bodie realised, as his boss's eyes skated straight over Doyle's drag and widened at the sight of Bodie's extremely snug gold shorts and matching boots.

“I see your gift for camouflage hasn't deserted you, 3.7,” he said drily.

“No sir, thank you sir. But 4.5 should take the credit. Sir.”

Cowley's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “4.5?”

Doyle pushed himself off the wall and Bodie sighed as he recognised his partner's brain going into full-on patter mode.

“Yeah, well, he needed to fit in with the crowd and this sort of get-up was going to take too long to put on, what with all the hooks and eyes. And laces. And clips. Thought we should keep it simple, sir. Like 3.7.”

Bodie glared at him. Doyle let the look bounce straight off.

Cowley sighed. “Yes, yes, alright you two. Go home. I'll see you in my office first thing on Monday.”

“Thank you, sir.”

***

They picked their way through the shattered back door and down metal steps towards Doyle's car.

“Can you drive in those heels?”

Doyle leaned on the roof of the car and gave his partner a hard look. Bodie held his hands up in surrender.

“Only asking. Don't fancy explaining myself to an ambulance man if your foot slips and we drive into the back of a bus, that's all.”

“Come on,” said Doyle, climbing into the driver's seat, “I need a drink.”

***

Doyle swung the Capri into a parking space outside his flat and turned at Bodie's surprise.

“You didn't think we were going to the pub, did you? Denise is very understanding, but a landlady has her limits.”

“Wasn't thinking of anything much, to be honest.”

“No change there then.”

“Don't need to wear out my brain cells when yours are always working double time, do I?” Bodie reached over to ruffle Doyle's hair. “Come on Frankie, you promised me alcohol.”

***

“Christ, it's not whisky I need, but a bleedin' cold shower,” thought Bodie, watching the satin tauten over Doyle's arse as he bent to retrieve two tumblers.

“Penny for 'em,” said Doyle, placing the glasses on the side and pouring a generous measure of single malt into each.

“Was just wondering how long it takes you to get into that lot. Y'know what with the hooks and eyes and laces and...” Bodie swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, “... clips,” he said, almost telling the truth.

Doyle pressed a glass into Bodie's hand and sauntered across the carpet towards an armchair. He sprawled majestically across it, limbs draped elegantly over the arms, and gave Bodie a knowing look. “Longer than it takes to get out of it,” he said. “You can give me a hand if you like.”

Bodie pointed his glass at Doyle. “No way, mate. If I have to suffer the indignity of Rocky's shorts, you can bleedin' well suffer too.”

“Who said I was suffering? Told you, you get used to it.”

Bodie snorted. “That your new look then? Planning on wearing that lot into work on Monday?”

“Nah, can't have the whole squad looking at me the way you're looking at me. Nobody'd ever get any work done.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Bodie!” Doyle said, exasperated and swinging his heels back to the floor, “Don't pull the thick soldier routine with me. You might be simple, but you're not stupid.”

He pushed himself upright and advanced across the floor. “Cowley once told me we were like chalk and cheese, but you know what? We're more like strawberries and cream – good apart, better together.” He stopped, toe to toe, with Bodie and slid his glass next to Bodie's on the window sill.

“You could tell me you're not interested, Bodie, but I wouldn't believe you.”

Bodie opened his mouth to speak and Doyle lightly ran the pad of his little finger from the crotch to the waistband of the very tight gold shorts. He felt the material tighten beneath his touch, looked Bodie in the eye and grinned. Bodie brought both hands up to grab Doyle's face and found his partner's mouth with his own. All uncertainty gone, he didn't waste time on a tentative brush of lips as a polite request for more, but instead claimed his territory with a promise of pleasure to come.

He felt Doyle slide one hand on to his hip and another on to his neck, pulling their bodies closer and pressing his hard-on against Bodie's. He broke the kiss, laughed at the lipstick now smeared around Doyle's mouth and said, "Okay, you've talked me into it."

Doyle wiped his thumb over Bodie's lips, removing the red-black gloss he'd left behind and grinned. "Come on then," he said, crooking a finger into Bodie's waistband and pulling his partner towards the bedroom, "give yourself over to absolute pleasure..."

He pressed his lips to Bodie's once more and felt his cock twitch inside the satin knickers as Bodie yielded to him, warm lips parted, tongue languorously exploring Doyle's mouth. He stepped back, finger still hooked inside the gold shorts and added huskily, "Swim the warm waters of sin of the flesh..."

Bodie's eyes narrowed and then he moved, so fast that all Doyle could manage was an "oof" as he was flung over his partner's shoulder.

"Come on then, Fay Wray," said Bodie, spreading his fingers over Doyle's arse as he carried him into the bedroom. He dropped Doyle on to the bed and gazed at his spreadeagled partner, giddy with lust.

He fell to his knees and began to kiss his way up Doyle's stockinged legs, smiling to himself as Doyle spread himself wider. By the time Bodie's lips had crossed the boundary between nylon and bare flesh, his nose and mouth were deliciously full of Doyle's musky scent.

He brushed his nose against the silky black fabric and had to resist the urge to take himself in hand when Doyle let slip an animal-like moan in response. Bodie opened his mouth against the hardness beneath the satin and huffed warm breath over it. Doyle's hand was suddenly buried in Bodie's hair, urging him on. Bodie mouthed Doyle's cock through the knickers, gratified by the growing damp patch near the waistband.

He slid the knickers down to free Doyle's cock and wasted no time engulfing it in his mouth. He heard Doyle's muttered curses above him and ran his tongue around the head.

The little rational thought that was left in Doyle's head went out of the window. His world was one of pure sensation - Bodie's hot, wet mouth, expert tongue and firm hand. He barely felt his own hand carding Bodie's hair as his partner pushed him ever closer to orgasm. 

"Bodie..." he gasped and released the slight pressure on Bodie's head. His partner ignored the warning and hollowed out his cheeks to suck Doyle over the edge.

Doyle lay panting on his back, trying to regain enough equilibrium to speak. He finally, managed to lift his head enough to see Bodie, still kneeling between his thighs, hair unusually ruffled and two bright pink spots colouring his cheeks. He motioned with his head towards the rest of the bed. "Come on then, Daisy. Room on this bed for two, y'know."

Bodie grinned and pinged the knicker elastic against Doyle's thigh as he pushed himself upright and joined Doyle on the bed.

"Need a hand?" 

Doyle was struggling with the knickers which were trapped around his thighs by the suspenders. 

 "Help yourself," said Doyle and settled back on his elbows to watch Bodie unsnap the clasps before sliding the underwear to the floor.

"One good turn deserves another," said Doyle, "you're in danger of something dropping off if you don't get out of those shorts, mate."

"Wouldn't want that," said Bodie.

"Hmm," said Doyle and pushed Bodie on to his back. He pressed the palm of his hand into the front of the shorts - feeling his own cock already taking a renewed interest in proceedings as he did - and carefully removed them, leaving Bodie's cock bobbing hard and heavy above his abdomen. He slipped his hand around it and gave an experimental pull.

"This what you want, Bodie? Or do you want my mouth?"

Bodie looked up from watching Doyle's hand encircling his cock and blinked as he tried to articulate his desire.

Doyle's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? First time out an' all? 'ang on then, I've got some lube somewhere..." He shifted across the bed to a cabinet and rummaged in a drawer, leaving Bodie feeling momentarily bereft. It was worth it though to feel Doyle slicking his cock a moment later.

"You can do your own fingers," said Doyle, dropping the small tube on Bodie's chest.

Another minute later and Bodie was sliding a finger between Doyle's cheeks. He looked up, worried. "You sure about this, Ray?"

"Of course I'm bloody sure, sunshine. Get on with it!"

Bodie's frown transformed into a beam, and Doyle felt a black hole open in his chest at the way the sun came out whenever Bodie did that. And then Bodie slid a finger inside him and all sentimental thought was banished. By the time that finger had been joined by two others, Doyle was incoherent and begging for more.

Bodie leaned forward to claim another kiss and then replaced his fingers with his cock. He shut his eyes for a moment, savouring the heat and the tightness before sliding deeper into Doyle. He opened his eyes to find Doyle gloriously impaled beneath him, head thrown back, eyes closed, long, pale throat exposed and hands reaching for Bodie's hips. He swallowed and started to fuck Doyle into the mattress.

*** 

Doyle lay, pressed into the mattress by Bodie's body - comfortingly solid, but bloody heavy - collapsed on top of him. He ran a hand down a cool, smooth flank and smiled at the flicker of muscle and muttered "Geroff" on his shoulder it produced.

"I take it, you don't want to Madison then?"

He couldn't have produced an exact transcript of the noises that were directed into his flesh, but he was pretty sure he understood the gist of it.

He pressed a kiss into Bodie's hair and rolled him off his chest to a disgruntled moan.

"Yeah, well I need me beauty sleep too. Once I've cleaned up and got out of this corset. Back in a bit."

***

By the time Doyle had removed his make-up, the rest of his costume and had a wash, Bodie was fast asleep. Stretched out on the bed, he could have been mistaken for a Renaissance statue were it not for the shiny gold boxing boots still on his feet. 

Frank would have been proud if this was the man he'd made, thought Doyle, as he gently removed the boots and eased Bodie under the covers. He slid in next to him and kissed a broad shoulder.

"Goodnight, creature of the night," he whispered.

Bodie grimaced, turned, draped an arm over Doyle and kissed his cheek, before effecting a Hammer Horror lisp in his partner's ear, "Goodnight, marthter..."

 Huge thanks to the very talented Minori_k for her fabulous artwork for this story!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artworks for 'Don't Dream It, Be It...' by anythingbutpink](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2565056) by [minori_k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minori_k/pseuds/minori_k)




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